


The Engineer's Thumb & Other Body Parts

by SCFrankles



Category: Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'Urbervilles - Kim Newman
Genre: Community: holmestice, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 03:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12786456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/pseuds/SCFrankles
Summary: After suffering an injury, Moran heads to deepest Surrey to recuperate at Colonel Lowther’s bachelor establishment. Unfortunately Moriarty insists on accompanying him.





	The Engineer's Thumb & Other Body Parts

**Author's Note:**

> For pocketbookangel, who is no longer on AO3. 
> 
> Written for the Winter 2017 Round of Holmestice at Dreamwidth. You can see my fic posted on Dreamwidth [here](https://holmestice.dreamwidth.org/459988.html), and you can see the full list of works [here](https://holmestice.dreamwidth.org/467484.html).
> 
> * * *

Although the Firm retains myself and a variety of lesser lieutenants to do the messy work, Moriarty isn’t above using a firearm himself on occasion. And a particular occasion that lodges in the cranium is his shooting me in the leg during the affair of the Three Garretts’ Debts. That was a straightforward enough job on the surface. The Garrett family’s gambling den going under, a rival’s on the up and up. Nathan Garrett requests assistance with taking over the rival’s operation and so, accompanied by my Webley, I’m dispatched to arrange the permanent removal of Ifan Killick, leaving his business and patrons up for grabs. 

Should have known it wasn’t that simple. Wheels within wheels. There I am in Killick’s poky cellar getting the lay of the land over a game of cards—playing with my own cash, and losing in order to put everyone else at ease—when a new arrival jumps up and blasts me in the thigh. Everyone scarpers, including Killick. A familiar voice hisses at me to not make a fuss because it’s only a scratch, then Moriarty disappears back into the shadows and I stagger back to Conduit Street to patch myself up with the assistance of Mrs Halifax.

Turns out Killick’s place was being used for laundering counterfeit money. Moriarty had already been aware of this, and opted to deal with the situation by casually spreading the word that Colonel Sebastian ‘Basher’ Moran, Number Two Big-ish Chief of the Firm was on Killick’s trail. Then he shoots me to allow Killick to believe some other opponent is taking up all of my attention, Killick gets careless and unknowingly leads the Professor back to the location of the printing press, the Firm gets a new asset and as punishment Killick is quietly disposed of by someone further up his own chain of command. Very neat. Apart from my being shot in the leg and my fellow card players scarpering with my money before I had a chance to win it all back. 

I suppose you might argue it was worth the wound to know the Prof didn’t see me as entirely expendable. It wasn’t a shot intended to cause serious harm and he clearly didn’t trust anyone else to shoot me. If you _did_ make that argument I would be more than willing to shoot you in the thigh so we could compare impressions and discuss the matter fully. For God’s sake, I’ve seen men bleed to death from leg wounds and that ‘scratch’ was ruddy painful. It also took its time to heal. The Prof finally decided I needed to recover and recuperate away from London. That wasn’t wholly for my benefit of course. He wanted to make sure this particular asset was in full working order for his duties. 

Moriarty naturally drew the line at actually supplying the funds for this prescription, which left me in something of a quandary. As I’ve mentioned, I’d been using my own money at the gambling tables and was temporarily a bit short. I wasn’t keen on tracking down my sisters, the old unmarriageables, and joining ’em in their boarding house. And I wasn’t knee deep in acquaintances—especially any willing to put me up for an extended period of time. 

The only reasonable option seemed to be Colonel Alfred Lowther. Bit of a fairy mary but a decent soldier. Not afraid to get stuck in when the natives get restless and the shooting starts. He served under me for a brief while before getting his promotion, but had now retired to Rowlea in deepest Surrey where he runs a discreet bachelor establishment. That is, a knocking shop for bumboys. Almost a home from home for me after the past few years living above Mrs Halifax’s _filles de joie_. Perhaps not my first choice of place to stay but needs must.

I had just begun to creep towards feeling halfway positive about the trip when Moriarty started insisting on accompanying me for this blasted sojourn. Apparently the Firm’s books needed a thorough going over and he wanted some peace and quiet in order to properly enjoy it. So I miserably dashed off a few vague threats to Lowther regarding blackmail and violence, dispatched the boy who empties the pisspots down to the pillar box, and the Professor and I received an invitation in the next post.

 

 

The train journey was uneventful, and upon arrival at the station we took a cab to Lowther’s establishment, far out in the countryside and just outside the village of Rowlea itself. You may be wondering about Lowther’s patrons at this point—that this seems a ruddy long way to come just for a tumble. But it isn’t a by-the-hour kind of operation. More of a small hotel. Place to stay for a few days: bed, board and buggery. 

Lowther doesn’t actively run the place himself—he has a Mrs Holston on the premises as madame. And it was she who greeted Moriarty and myself on our arrival. A hugely tall bint—found myself immediately presented with a faceful of her décolletage when she opened the front door. She would certainly have been worth a Basher Moran Special if her broad shoulders and basso profondo voice hadn’t told me she wasn’t my kind of girl. Must say, the expression on her face as she looked the Prof and me up and down—or rather, down and further down—suggested she was heartily satisfied with that state of affairs. However, we seemed to eventually pass muster and she consented to take us through to see Lowther himself. 

We had to travel through the brothel parlour in order to reach the passage that led to Lowther’s private quarters. A few young men in tight trousers and low cut shirts were lounging about—some strapping, some winsome. Most immediately snapped to attention and gave me a winning smile but lapsed back into disinterest when they realised my own. One or two were foolish enough to try and make eye contact with the Professor but the resulting fixed expressions indicated they had rapidly realised their mistake. A patron was there too—his case beside him ready for departure—slipping a large tip to his favourite. I wondered briefly as we passed, if I might get some entertainment here after all, playing cards and getting those tips directed into my pockets before they were handed in to Mrs Holston. But I quickly discarded the idea. For once I wasn’t here for trouble. 

Another man staggered into the parlour, his lack of youth and beauty suggesting he was also a client. He was being supported by a second nondescript middle-aged man. 

“Ah, Doctor Jiggens,” boomed Mrs Holston. She was addressing the supporter, not the supportee. “How is Mr Smith?”

The doctor waved at the enormous bruise on the client’s forehead. “Just a little rest is needed, and then he’ll be right as rain.”

‘Grey and dismal’ I suppose. About all you can expect from the English physician. I gave Mrs Holston an approving look though. Clearly the business wasn’t above using a little physical force to keep any unruly patrons in line. However, she tutted at my expression.

“I don’t know exactly what’s in your mind, Colonel, but we run an honest business here. Mr Smith’s head may have come in repeated contact with the headboard but it was purely accidental.”

I turned back to the client. For a moment I felt somewhat envious of the dazed but satisfied Mr ‘Smith’ and sighing inwardly, I thought longingly of my favourite dollymop Fifi back at Mrs Halifax’s. But I was here to recuperate. Allow my leg to heal. A rest from all of my favourite pastimes might be all to the good. 

Would it f--k. But I was here now and there wasn’t a direct train home for a fortnight. I decided to make the best of it.

 

 

When we finally reached his quarters, Lowther greeted the Professor and myself with a fair amount of genuine enthusiasm. To be truthful, I think he was happy to have a change of face and some of the gossip from London. His ‘manservant’ Horace then showed us to our rooms (old habits of discretion apparently die hard, even in the godforsaken countryside) and from then on we were pretty much left to our own devices. 

And God knows what devices the Prof had with him but I had only brought my Webley and using that on myself seemed rather drastic even in a hole like Rowlea. However, I was delighted to discover Lowther had a room filled to the rafters with books and pictures of the French postcard type. Naturally an emphasis on knackers but also a small but substantial collection of the unclothed bint. That kept me happy for a few days while the Prof kept himself to himself making his way through the Firm’s books. Still though, there’s only so much a red-blooded man can do with photographs of one tart perched on another tart’s knee while they grin at each other. I was bored.

Rescue when it came hailed from an unexpected source. Lowther’s knocking shop was burgled. A surprisingly difficult thing to have achieved—there was someone awake and in charge of the premises at all times. But somehow all occupants had been avoided, a small window had been broken and someone had gained entrance to a storeroom. 

Hadn’t stolen anything, mind you. Couple of packages left behind instead. 

Mrs Holston discovered the break-in on a Sunday afternoon, and immediately rushed to inform Lowther of the matter, bringing the offending packages with her. She was in some distress and the commotion brought me out of my room to see what was going on. Even Moriarty was encouraged to come out and have a butcher’s. 

The contents of the packages were a grisly sight. There was a dismembered digit labelled in block capitals ‘Engineer’s Thumb’, accompanied by a jagged piece of cartilage labelled ‘Sailor’s Ear’. 

Moriarty’s lips split apart.

“No ‘Housemaid’s Knee’ or ‘Parson’s Nose’?” he enquired. 

Always an unsettling moment when the Prof attempts a joke. Lowther looked somewhat ashen-faced but Mrs Holston seemed too distraught to be aware of the Professor’s mirth. 

“Engineer’s thumb!” she cried. “Sailor’s ear! Mr Brunel and Mr Nelson!”

I was none the wiser but Lowther supplied the explanation.

“Two of our regular gentlemen, Moran. Not their real names, we must assume.”

“They both simply vanished in the middle of the night!” said Mrs Holston. “Nobody saw them leave. And then I found these just now...” She turned green as she gazed down at the body parts and she swayed a little.

Clearly not wanting to have to deal with a six foot ten fainting madame in the middle of his sitting room, Lowther sent Horace for Doctor Jiggens. 

He soon returned with him, the doctor having been present in the brothel already. Jiggens fussed over Mrs Holston’s pulse, forehead, and heaving bosom, and sent Horace off to make tea. Then, once he’d got Mrs Holston’s bits and pieces settled in a chair, he agreed to turn his attention to the other body parts. 

His face became grave.

“The amputations are freshly done—very freshly done,” he said.

Lowther leant forward to see. 

“Are the victims likely to be still alive?” he asked. 

Jiggens nodded decisively. “They were alive when the amputations were done, and with prompt staunching of the blood flow are unlikely to have come to serious harm.”

Despite being a soldier, Lowther looked somewhat sick. Different in civilian life perhaps. For some anyway.

Moriarty decided to fill the pause in the conversation. “Thank you for your information, Doctor,” he said blandly. “How convenient for us that you were on the premises.”

Jiggens looked rather uncomfortable at Moriarty addressing him, which I suppose I could hardly blame the man for. On the whole I admired him for being able to limit his reaction to ‘uncomfortable’. He made a bit of a show of examining his pocket watch.

“I’m afraid I do have another appointment…”

Jiggens hurried off as Horace re-entered with the tea—a piece of paper on the tray, leaning against the pot. 

“It had been pushed through the door, sir! Addressed to you! No sign of whoever delivered it.”

Lowther took the note and scanned it. 

He looked up at us all. 

“Brunel and Nelson have been kidnapped.”

He passed the note to me and I regarded it with interest. It wasn’t handwritten. The words were instead cut from a newspaper in the time-honoured manner. My eyebrows involuntarily sped upwards.

“That’s a fair wodge of cash they’re asking for.” 

I passed the note over to Moriarty who considered it carefully.

“It is indeed a large amount of money but a well-judged one. Colonel Lowther can presumably find it without bankrupting the business. The kidnapper clearly believes you will hand it over rather than make a fuss.”

Lowther clenched his fists. “Well, the damn fellow can think again,” he said. “I won’t give in to blackmail.” He looked Moriarty in the eye. “I wish to consult you, Professor. If you can give me your assistance to sort out this situation, I will pay the ransom over to you instead.”

I looked doubtfully at the Prof. Rescuing damsels in distress of whatever sex has never been part of the Firm’s remit. Moriarty has taken on problems large and small but when it comes down to it, he is a consulting _criminal._ Saving victims from their abductors does rather go against the grain.

But Lowther seemed to already understand this. He shook his head. “Find Brunel and Nelson alive or not. Return them safely to their worried families or dispose quietly of their corpses. They are not what primarily concern me. I need you to sort this out and smooth things over! If word gets about that my patrons are likely to be carted away and have appendages sliced off, my whole business is finished.” 

In short, Lowther needed the Professor’s help to continue to break the law. Which was something Moriarty could always get on board with. 

He agreed to Lowther’s terms, and promptly returned to his room—to think the problem over I assumed. I was left with Horace solicitously serving up tea to Mrs Holston and Lowther re-examining the ransom note. Decided to make myself scarce too, and toddled off to Lowther’s ‘French postcard’ room. 

Once in there though, I felt restless. Things were happening at last and here was I cooped up inside. I hoped and expected that the Professor would need my services eventually but who knows when that would be? I tried to turn my attention to one or two of my favourite photographs but my heart and other parts of my anatomy just weren’t in it. 

My thoughts shifted to that ransom note. The words had been neatly cut out—an instrument wielded with precision. But thereafter the words had been gummed to the page haphazardly, as though the writer had been chucking ’em at the paper in the hope they would form words as they fell. Dashed awkward to read. And then there were those scrag ends—so neatly amputated… Jiggens rushing off to his ‘other appointment’ drifted through my mind, and a penny dropped. 

Surely note and body parts were a doctor’s work. 

I thought about immediately sharing this titbit with Moriarty but on second thoughts, he would probably have the possibility already factored into his plans. No, I would just have to wait until he gave me my orders. 

Or would I…? I considered the options. It would do no harm surely if I beetled down to the village, found the doctor’s practice and did a recce. Maybe even found where he was keeping the unfortunate patrons, if he was indeed responsible and they were still alive. I would get an outing and Moriarty would get some extra information. Everybody’s happy! I thought about returning to my room to retrieve my Webley but decided it was unnecessary. You’re just going to have a look, Basher, I told myself sternly.

I made my way to the entrance hall, popped on my outerwear and set off for the village. And I began to enjoy the exercise: it was a fine day and my leg was barely aching at all. I truly felt as though I was getting back to my old self. It was almost a shame when I reached the shabby little house on the outskirts of the village that, via its tarnished brass plate, proclaimed itself to be Doctor Jiggens’ residence. 

I did a brief examination of the place from the outside. No reason to be too discreet. The doctor and I were acquaintances after all—perfectly reasonable for me to be paying him a visit. I thought it over. Sunday afternoon: any maid was likely to be home with her family. Jiggens himself had said he had another appointment—visiting his captives perhaps…? And to be honest, the possibility of getting caught was part of the thrill. 

I decided to chance it.

I went round the back and found a likely window. Shut of course but not with a catch that would put up too much of a struggle. I soon achieved ingress.

I looked around. The room I had gained entrance to appeared to be Jiggens’ study. I examined my surroundings a little more closely. The doctor seemed to be terribly keen on body parts in jars as interior decoration. Another penny dropped. Doctors, as well as having experience in removing body parts themselves, may also have access to other doctors’ leavings. ‘Brunel’ and ‘Nelson’, wherever they may be, might yet both be in one piece. 

I had the sudden sensation I was being watched. I turned, and flinched from a row of pickling jars, each containing one or two misshapen eyes. This appeared to be Jiggens’ special area of interest. Nearby on a side table was a display box of glass eyes, each one seemingly constructed to demonstrate every revolting disease and accident of birth that could occur regarding the damn things. Bright red scleras, cloudy lenses, strange patches on the irises. A delightful ornament, perfect for every drawing room!

I decided to search further afield in the house. But before I could, my ears pricked up and my heart rate abruptly increased. 

There was someone approaching the open window. 

I swore to myself. Why the hell hadn’t I brought my Webley with me? But this was no time for self-recrimination. I quickly tucked myself behind a handy chaise longue and awaited developments. 

The footsteps paused outside the window. Then a man clambered in. He was holding a gun. _My_ gun. 

It was bloody Moriarty!

I stood up slowly and cautiously and we stared at each other—he, stage right and I, upstage. But only for a moment. Because stage left, another player abruptly joined us, entering through the study door. 

Doctor Jiggens. 

He ignored me. His whole quivering attention was taken up by the Professor and my Webley. Jiggens’ first utterance wasn’t quite what I was expecting though. 

“I knew it!” he yelled at Moriarty. “I knew you were lying about giving me a share of the money! Come to tie up a loose end, have you?”

I looked at the Professor and yet another penny dropped—the old mental piggy bank would be quite full at this rate. Of course Moriarty was behind it all. He had insisted on accompanying me to Surrey because he had a little extortion in mind. 

The Professor read my expression and showed me his teeth. 

“I needed to recoup our losses somehow, Moran. The Firm has lost significant income due to you being incapacitated.”

I knew better to suggest that perhaps he shouldn’t have shot me then. 

Moriarty waved the Webley a little. “And as you are still recuperating, I thought I would not bother you for this minor job regarding Jiggens.”

Concern for my health! I was touched. Well, I would have been but for the fact the Prof was using my gun in case the local plods decided to take an interest and try and trace the murder weapon back to its owner. 

During all this, I have to say I had momentarily forgotten about Jiggens being in the room but he now abruptly reannounced his presence. It appeared he had been thoroughly prepared for the possibility of the Professor’s betrayal because the bloody man harpooned me with a syringe. God knows what was in it but my extremities started to go numb and I began to lose control of my muscles. Jiggens grabbed me from behind and a scarf was pulled tight around my throat. 

“Go!” he called to Moriarty. “Leave now, and I won’t kill him!”

Hah! Ultimately the Professor wasn’t _that_ concerned about my well-being. 

I rolled my eyes. 

And seemingly in sympathy with my action, Moriarty tipped over the box of glass eyeballs. 

Not the most dramatic of diversions but it did work. The scarf loosened a fraction and I felt Jiggens shift in position. 

Moriarty lifted the Webley, and he pulled the trigger. 

You know though, there is a very good reason Moriarty hired someone else to do the shooting. 

I suddenly felt a familiar sensation—a bloody painful, familiar sensation. I looked down. 

Moriarty had shot me in the other leg.

Jiggens let go of me and I heard footsteps running back towards the door. Moriarty fired again but the bullet went into the wall. I took a step forwards, put my foot on a glass eyeball, slipped backwards and hit the floor. 

And that was all I truly knew for a while.

 

 

I do have a vague recollection of being carried back to Lowther’s by the estimable Mrs Holston—the Prof presumably having gone to fetch reinforcements. But my first clear memory was finding myself tucked up in bed, my wound cleaned and dressed. A trusted doctor attached to the Firm had come down from London to sort me out, the local doctor now presumably as ruddy far away from the area as he could possibly manage. 

And in bed at Lowther’s is where I stayed for another week before Moriarty and I finally returned to London, accompanied by a large quantity of Lowther’s immoral earnings. Naturally Moriarty didn’t tell Lowther the full story. People tend to get rather upset when they know they’ve been duped. All gets very messy. And if Lowther had known Brunel and Nelson were safe and sound and bodily intact he might have put up a fuss about handing over cash to Moriarty for making sure the ‘kidnap’ situation was kept quiet. 

The whole thing had been quite simple really. Moriarty had recruited Jiggens, who’d then had no difficulty in picking up a few genuine details about one or two of the patrons—he was forever in and out of the rooms. A few threats from Moriarty to Brunel and Nelson regarding informing their families and acquaintances about where they’d been spending their time and naturally they scampered away at once—never to breathe a word about Lowther’s establishment, either good or ill.

I did briefly feel a twinge for Lowther, caught up amongst all this scheming. But to be honest, it was probably all for the best. Moriarty didn’t seem interested in keeping the establishment permanently tied to the Firm. Paying a lump sum upfront rather than having to pay a regular tithe probably meant Lowther would be saving money overall. 

So it all turned out rather well. For Moriarty anyway. 

On my part, I had to undergo a second round of recuperation—this time safely in London. I did resent that second bullet wound, don’t you know, even if had been accidental this time. 

Oddly though, it was knocking myself out that played most on my mind. Slipping on that glass eyeball! A humiliating memory. 

In point of fact, I have now told Mrs Halifax that if ever again I consider going on holiday to the countryside with Moriarty, she should take the time to remind me this is a bad idea. 

Preferably by discreetly approaching me and whispering _’balls_ in my ear.


End file.
